Only in dreams
by Kora
Summary: art imitates life. life imitates art. somewhere the lines blur.


Only in Dreams

Any and all lyrics, those used to tie the story together and those used within the story, belong to weezer.

_You can't resist her_

_She's in your bones_

"Hey Morgan, wait up!" Gerry shoved at the mass of swarming bodies and grabbed the gawky arm clad in a simple Ramones hoodie. 

"Yes, Gerry?" she said in that enigmatic way, turning her plain brown eyes set in a nothing-special face to meet his. 

Something in his stomach flip-flopped. He could be cool, nonchalant, reserved with anyone else, ('cept his parents and little sister Kate, but they didn't seem to count in this sense) everyone, except her. "I know you play drums, "he stammered, fumbling for the right words. "Do you think…I've already got a set, but no matter what I try, I can't figure it out…do you think you could teach me to play?"

She laughed at him, jovial-sounding, not mocking at all. Her head titled back, shaking some of her messy mousey hair into her face. She swatted at it, not bothering even to finger-comb. "Gerry Yoast, musical wonderboy, who taught himself electric guitar AND bass, is battling through high school hallway crowds to beg for MY help?"

Gerry couldn't keep the flush from his cheeks, didn't even bother to fight it. All his life he'd relied on the shadowy mystery that seemed to come from his dark features, that most girls giggled and bobbed their empty heads at, to get by. It disgusted him, but it worked, he'd gotten any homework help he'd needed without having to get close. Morgan Kirby came, took one look at him, and wouldn't have any of it. "Would begging help?" he offered, avoiding her amused gaze.

The laugh came again, louder this time, catching the annoyed glances of a few popular passerby's. "I'll be there," she announced when the chuckling subsided, as if that had been the plan all along. 

"Great," Gerry answered, the weight sliding off his back a bit. "When?" But she was already gone. 

_She is your marrow_

_And your ride home_

"You're doing good." Morgan never presented much in the way of compliments or advice. She just told what needed to be known, showed what needed to be shown, nothing more. That's why Gerry went to her. He didn't like excessive talking; babbling, he called it. Just like him, Morgan didn't say any more than needed to be said. 

Only around her, he didn't feel like himself. He'd catch himself babbling about how he didn't have the basic mechanical skills to keep one beat with one foot and a different one with his hands. Morgan would stare at him with that raised eyebrow—it appeared cocky and teacher-like to most, but Gerry saw it as intelligently challenging—until his protests died and he gave it another try.

"I think you're ready to graduate to real drums." 

Dropping the pencils from his hands onto the desk, Gerry smiled in relief. "Good. 'Cause I'm tired of feeling like an idiot."

"Oh, don't worry, wonderboy," A mischievous grin, like his mother's only more secretive, spread about Morgan's lips. "That's just beginning."

They crept from the abandoned classroom and through the deserted hallways. If caught after school for unauthorized purposes, even for just a drum lesson, a detention and string of demerits followed. 

"Come on," Morgan reached into her hoody pocket and pulled out a set of jangling keys once they reached the parking lot. "Let me drive you home." 

Now it was Gerry's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You know where I live?"

"Of course." Morgan unlocked her car and shoved a mass of greasy Happy Meal boxes and empty cd cases from the passengers seat to the floor. "Don't ask how. I make it my business to know these things." After they were buckled and ready, she turned to him, managing successfully to pull out of her parking spot without breaking her steady gaze on his face. "I've had my eye, sometimes both, on you for awhile."

A multitude of possible responses sprung to Gerry's lips. She'd been watching him? Girls had never shown much interest in him. They'd flocked at first, vapidly attracted to his "romantic" symbolism of the brooding, passionate, guitar-god in-training, but quickly abandoned their chase for the captain of the football team after unsuccessful attempts to break through his icy wall.

If Morgan had noticed any presence of a wall, she'd melted it instantly with barely a blink. "For what?" he finally stuttered, choosing the first words that were able to form. 

"You'll see."

_You can't avoid her_

_She's in the air_

His fingers literally itched, no matter how much he tried to rub them with the smooth metal of his fork, scratch against the semi-rough denim of his jeans. He ate only for the nourishment, only because he would need the energy. Food had no taste, casual words of dinner table conversation had no meaning. As soon as cordially possible, Gerry threw himself from the table, bypassing the piano, where he often did preliminary writing. His parents let him go, both artists in their own way, recognizing the fiery glint in his eye.

Entering his converted garage sanctum, Gerry paused for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek and eyeing his guitar. If he didn't work a song out on the piano, he did it on his guitar. He didn't know how to play anything else well enough. But tonight, neither seemed right. Something deeper pounded in his head.

In a swift move, Gerry sat in his chair, bass in his lap. Seconds as natural as breathing felt a rhythm birthed into existence. The rhythm matched the pictures in his head. Song, images, and feeling threaded together, producing one tangible result.

He'd always noticed her. He'd never really known her, still didn't. Yet, he knew enough. Enough to know…what he felt happening frightened him, reminded him of what his father spoke about his high school days, a certain realization…

Each time he remembered her, she grew prettier. Not that any of that mattered. She understood him more than anyone else. One look from her read his thoughts, his soul. Instead of recoiling, Gerry wanted more.

He couldn't let someone different from himself inside his self-built fortress. But she had walls of her own. It became lonely inside four walls.

Gerry thought back to when she'd dropped him off. He'd felt more comfortable then, knowing her better from their snippets of a conversation. He asked her, jokingly, perhaps seriously as well, if he'd ever be as good a drummer as she. She'd smiled, acting coy, then erased the fake bashfulness for a partial playful confidence. "In your dreams," she called out the window, then stomped on the gas and screeched away before he could answer.

The few notes played over and over. A few whispered words slipped from Gerry's lips, still focused on what she'd last said. "Only in dreams." 

_In between molecules _

_Of oxygen and carbon dioxide_

All day long the bass line vibrated in his head. Glimpses caught of her in the hallway—shadowed grins she'd send his way before melting into the crowd—did nothing to help. Hours, minutes, seconds trickled by, microscopic grains of sand in an hourglass. After centuries of waiting, eighth period came, and with it, jazz band.

Gerry didn't like jazz band, neither the concept nor the music. Yet, any excuse to play his guitar for an entire class overweighed the negative. Morgan felt the same way, Gerry knew, which made jazz band a blessing; they had no other period together, not even lunch or study hall. 

She didn't speak to him for the entire class, hardly even glanced at him. Gerry couldn't decide if he'd scared her, angered her, or if this was some sort of game. The latter seemed most likely, which worried him. 

At the liberating ring of the bell, Gerry tried to make his way to her seat, but upon arriving, discovered her gone. "Mor—"

"Right here."

Gerry jumped, twisting around in the process. He rolled his eyes at the girl standing behind him. "Practice today?"

Winking, "of course," Morgan motioned for him to follow. "We need to get you a bassist," she informed him over her shoulder, matter-of-factly, like he had no choice in the matter. Gerry smiled to himself—he probably didn't.

"I play bass," he reminded her, knowing she knew, but unsure how else to reply.

Raising her eyebrows, Morgan held her car door open for him, slammed it closed once he entered, and swung around to her own seat. "'Course you do. But you can't play bass and guitar at the same time, and I'm guessing you'd rather be on the guitar. I'm drums, but we're missing bass."

A strange feeling rose in Gerry's stomach. Sick excitement, curiosity, and surprise swirled with the bag of chips and half a something sandwich (he hadn't been coherent in the morning when he threw whatever he could identify as food into the brown paper bag) of his lunch. "We? You mean like a band?"

She shook her head and him, pieces of hair, frizzier today in the freak February humidity, breaking lose of their position tucked into the Ramones hoody she always wore. "Is the heat getting to your head, or are you purposefully slow today?" 

  With anyone else, that could easily be taken as an insult. Not with Morgan. She never put anyone down, never seriously, not even if someone deserved it, despite her plentiful reasons and opportunities. 

Without waiting for an answer, Morgan continued. "I know you, wonderboy," she murmured, only half paying attention, most of her focus on the road. "You've got tons of great songs stewing in that brain of yours. And you've got too much talent to write for only one instrument." They smoothed to a halt for a red light. Cocking a grin at him, she paused to let him reply. 

Working his jaw, Gerry attempted to form words, but only unintelligible stutter came out. In her own way, Morgan just paid him an extremely high compliment. Gerry could hardly comprehend her having the vaguest interest in him, and this…

"Keep stammering, wonderboy," Morgan chuckled at him, accelerating once allowed by a green light, "and don't worry about anything. I'll take care of it. You just keep writing."

Wordlessly, Gerry nodded. He wouldn't be able to speak even if he had anything to say. _'You'll see what it means…'_

_You walk up to her_

_Ask her to dance_

A knock interrupted their lesson. Sighing, "sorry, let me get that," Gerry stood from his drum set, smiled in apology to Morgan, and opened the garage door. Immediately his features softened. "Hey there, Kit-Kat," Gerry reached and ruffled the already tousled straight hair of his littlest sister. 

Kate blinked her wide blue eyes at him and scuffed her foot on the carpet. She muttered something incoherent, then gazed hopefully at him. 

Chuckling, Gerry kneeled to meet her at eye level. "What's that again?"

"I'm lonely," Kate blurted with all the courage her eight-year-old voice could muster. "Daddy's napping, like he always does, Mommy had t'lead choir today, Chrissy's working, and I don't know where Shay is."

Taking her small hand in his own, guitar-callused one, Gerry lead Kate inside. "Well then, come on it, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine." For the first time glancing from his sister, Gerry blushed to discover the amused but gentle expression Morgan wore. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she announced, shaking redhead's hand, then letting out a giggle that surprised all but Kate when the girl pounced at Morgan, climbing into her lap.

"Can I watch you make fun of Gerry?" she asked, delighted. All the usual demure amusement tinged with mystery returned to Morgan's face. 

Grumbling, playfully at Kate and realistically at Morgan, Gerry flopped back into his seat. "She's teaching, not teasing."

Innocent, smooth, Morgan questioned, "there's a difference?"

"Ha, funny."

***

Brushing a strand of hair from the face of the sleeping form, still in her lap, Morgan glanced at Gerry. "Is she really eight years old? She seems so much younger." 

A grin coiled the corner's of Gerry's mouth. "That's 'cause you've only seen her around me. She acts very much her age around everyone else." He leaned over and stroked her silky red head. "I just have that affect on her…we have it on each other."

A ghost of a smile, real, genuine, not shaded or mysterious, flickered on Morgan's lips. Her eyes lazily roved the garage, and lit in curiosity when they rested upon a pile of easels, canvases, and various paint supplies in a corner of the room. Her eyebrows raised in a quiet question.

"They're my sister Chrissy's," Gerry explained. "She likes to come in here sometimes when I'm playing. She says it inspires her. It's cool."

Morgan nodded, "very cool," then allowed for a few minutes of reflective silence before speaking again. "It's just my parents and me at home. You've got such a large family."

Gerry shrugged, though now he had a turn for amusement to glitter in his eyes. "It has it's up points…and it's down. If you ever want," he added seriously, "whenever, just want, I don't know why, but want a rowdier atmosphere, just stop by. I know Kate'll love to see you…" Gerry trailed off, turning crimson and looking away. When he finally mustered the courage to face her again, his reward came in a full, unmasked smile. 

_She says "hey baby I_

_Just might take the chance"_

"A week and I can still barely hold beat to anything more complicated than Twinkle, Twinkle Litter Star." Gerry stood, untangled his legs from the drum set seat, and trudged to his desk. An absent band teacher meant a free period, or in Morgan's eyes, extra lesson time. 

"Well, what did you expect, wonderboy?" tossing a crumpled piece of paper at him, Morgan draped herself on the steps beside Gerry. "Even I didn't learn everything there is to know in a week."

"Yeah, but…" Gerry scuffed at his desk's metal legs with a Converse-clad foot, pouting. "It didn't take me this long for the basics on anything else."

Standing and folding her arms over her chest, Morgan addressed him. "If you're going to be this whiny and thick headed with me, Gerry Yoast, you can forget about drum lessons." Her voice, which had previously held an intriguing blend of exasperation and aloofness only Morgan could pull, melded to allow a tinge of mischievousness. "That is, unless, you're willing to pay."

Gerry knew Morgan well enough by now. Rolling his eyes at her, he stretched and momentarily wondered why no one stared at them. They weren't exactly quiet, but then again people were probably used to them. "You won't stop teaching me."

Cocking one eyebrow—it amazed Gerry how she could perform the motion with only one, not both, he certainly couldn't—"oh really?" Morgan sprawled herself on the ground beneath his desk. 

"Yup," triumphant and cocky, Gerry folded his arms about his middle. "You need me. For that little band idea you're stewing. I'm your creative genius."

"If," Morgan rose to meet Gerry exactly at eye level, bending dominantly, authoritatively, over him. "If you think I NEED you for anything, you're wrong. Just because you're my favorite option doesn't mean you're the only one." With that, she straightened, placed her hands on her hips, allowed him to study her assured features for a moment, then sidled to her desk. Sliding into her seat, Morgan thunked her feet onto the desktop and rested there, allowing him the occasional lazy, confident, bored sideways glance. 

He couldn't decipher her words or glances, didn't even want to. The sudden chocolate of her eyes seared through his brain, echoing those two little words that held so much meaning. "Favorite option." He didn't care about anything else she did or said, if only he knew what she meant by "favorite option."

Gerry licked his lips, nervous, not looking over. This happened every time. He could only stay comfortable or normal with her for so long. Then she said or did something, leaving him mentally and emotionally on his back, legs flailing about like an overturned turtle on caffeine. 

_'Do I wait for her to come back? Or do I go over there?'_ Gerry glimpsed at the clock. Only seven minutes left of class. He couldn't take the risk of her disappearing after the bell rang. 

Breathing deeply, he forced himself to stride over, trying his best not to appear as a puppy with his tail between his legs. "There's a homecoming dance tonight, isn't there?"

Blinking several times, Morgan swerved her head to face his. "If this is going anywhere remotely near where this could be going, I'll be forced to kill you. For your own good, of course."

Running a hand through his hair, Gerry smiled. "Oh, don't worry. I'm as anti-homecoming as you. Which is why I thought…" he faltered, unnerved by her steady gaze, pausing to arrange his thoughts before able to continue. "You might want to come and celebrate an anti-dance with me."

"Anti-dance? Celebrate? Have I been working you too hard, wonderboy, or do you just not have the brain capacity I thought?"

That warranted a broader grin from Gerry. "Just…a get-together on a night of a dance to have fun without having to pay for it. My little sister has this kids sing along tape, and it has 'Jump, Jive, and Wail,' on it. I told her I'd teach her to swing dance…it'd be easier to demonstrate with another person…but my sisters are out tonight…"

Eyes glinting mysteriously, Morgan drew herself up at the sound of the bell. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Gerry shuffled from foot to foot. "Don't I get a yes or no?"

"Maybe," Morgan repeated before moving to fade into the crowd. "You'll get your solid answer if you see me tonight." 

_You say "it's a good thing_

_That you float in the air"_

            "That was sweet of your friend to come over and help with Kate."

Startled, Gerry jumped at his mother's voice. Calming, he shrugged at her. "I don't know if sweet's the right word for Morgan."

J shook her head, taking a seat beside Gerry on his bed. "She's got a sweet side. Buried, yes, small, yes, but Kate has that sort of affect on all of us."

"Mom…"

"Gerry, are you okay?" J studied her son with concerned hazel eyes. "It's been hard to tell lately."

"Mom," Gerry used his arms to push himself into a position better facing her. "Isn't this a father-son type talk?"

Nodding, "definitely," J sighed and scratched the side of her head. "But your father's asleep. And anyway, he's awful with this stuff, you know that." She shrugged and mused, "he'll probably blush and stumble his way into going starry-eyed and grossing you out with mushy stories about us when we were your age." 

Gerry contemplated this for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Yeah, you're right." 

His mother laid a gentle arm about his shoulders. "I'm not going to tell you what to do, or give you some irrelevant lecture. I just want you to know that we're here, your father and I. If you need us for anything at all, we're here." 

Leaning a bit into his mother's embrace, Gerry yawned. "I know, Mom."

"You've had crushes before," she commented, her soft voice breaking the silence after a moment. "Only a few, but they've never been like this."

"She's different."

Her features gentle and knowledgeable, J hugged her son around the shoulders. "Her type always are. They're special." 

Gerry twisted to meet her eyes. "Why? Why does it have to be different?" A lurking pain darkened his eyes. "So hard."

J rubbed a soothing hand across her son's back, voice wise. "Because if it were easy, it wouldn't be real."

_That way there's no way I will crush_

_Your pretty toenails into a thousand pieces"_

"In the garage, I feel safe, no one cares about my ways. In the garage where I belong, no one hears me sing this song." Nodding in bare approval, an indecipherable expression on her face, Morgan handed the paper back to Gerry. "It'll do." 

Gerry took the paper warily. "That's it?" This being his first time showing or playing any of his songs to Morgan, he felt a bit insecure about bearing that part of his soul to the girl he was trying to hide another part from. 'It'll do,' wouldn't cut it.

"You weren't expecting more, were you, Wonderboy?" Morgan gave him a wicked wink, then wiped all but innocence from her face. "I can't go inflating your ego. Then you'll think all big of yourself, like you're king of the band, and that never bodes well." 

Gerry sent her his best puppy dog look, the one he learned from copying his dad when he wanted something from his mom. Morgan raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, clearly relating that she couldn't care much less about whether or not she wounded his pride. Then, to Gerry's great surprise, she heaved a relenting sigh. "Alright, I guess for the morale of the band, it wouldn't hurt to be honest."

She took the paper from him and allowed a genuine smile to creep upon her lips as she read. "I've got an electric guitar. I play my stupid songs. I write these stupid words. And I love everyone waiting there for me. Yes I do, I do." She glanced up at him, again relinquishing the pen-scrawled paper. "I like it. Really. That part's amusing…but at the same time…real." She swallowed, heavy, and for the first time, Gerry saw shades of uncertainty in her eyes as her gaze fell from his. "Very real. People like you and me, we can really relate to it, and that's cool. Being able to express yourself well like that…it's a gift." 

He couldn't understand her flashes of insecurity. Gerry knew it didn't have anything to do with what she'd told him, so then what? He deliberated at that, masking his musings with a few yawns, then decided it best to leave the issue alone, for now at least, until he really knew her better. Making a funny face/laugh, almost like something forced out of his throat, Gerry coughed in an embarrassed laugh as he scrambled for his guitar. "Do you want to try it, maybe?" he asked, pulling the instrument into his lap.

"Sure," Morgan chuckled, shaking her head a bit, to lighten the air more than poke fun at him, Gerry sensed. She sat at the drums, taking the drumsticks and tapping thoughtfully on the tight-stretched canvas. "Your sister, Kate, plays harmonica, right?" she inquired, forehead wrinkled in a sudden bout of inspiration. "She showed us once."

"Yeah," Gerry nodded, then squinted at her in his own form of query. Mysteriously Morgan grinned back, waiting for him to press further.

_Only in dreams_

_We see what it means_

The entire night, writing consumed him. His parents let him, only because they faced a weekend. For the past weeks the words had come in snippets of sentences and phrases. Now he had enough for an entire song.

The bass line never left his head during the entire duration of the songwriting process, which had lasted for at least 14 days before its culmination that night. In the time since it'd entered his mind, the right guitar chords added themselves, along with the perfect drum beats. 

Everything came together that night. Gerry never left his garage for more than an early, brief bathroom break, not after Morgan left, not after his parents bid him goodnight, not when his mom came down an hour later to make sure he was okay, not even when his stomach demanded a snack. The call of the song overpowered every other urge.

He alternated from instrument to instrument, playing it out until it sounded just right (though he gave up with just okay in the drums). Occasionally he taped his drum efforts, since the feel didn't come as naturally, and he didn't want to forget anything he wrote. In between rotations, Gerry grabbed a pencil and pad of paper, scratching out the lyrics that poured from within him. 

Finally the frenzied vigor died away. The song had taken as much physical shape as possible, short of having guitar, bass, and drums play the notes together while the words hung in the air. 

Exhausted, Gerry let the guitar slide from his lap. He'd sung the song softly while playing on guitar, the last he could do on his own. There he curled in his place, sinking into the futon Shay'd supplied, insisting that he'd need something comfortable to sit in if he spent so much time in the garage. Though he'd initially argued, Gerry felt now grateful for his sister's nagging. Gerry lulled himself to sleep with the gentle humming of the pounding bass line. 

_Reach out a hand_

_Hold onto hers_

"You're hiding something from me." Morgan dropped her drumsticks onto the floor and folded her arms across her chest. "Now tell me what it is."

"No I'm not." Gerry placed his guitar in its case and thrust his hands into his pockets, casual. "You know everything but my life story." He angled a cocky grin at her. 

Rolling her eyes, "don't be stupid, Wonderboy," Morgan stood and strode over to him. "It's a song. Play it for me."

Licking his lips, suddenly nervous, Gerry shook his head. "I've played you all my finished songs. There's some unfinished ones, but can't they wait?"

"Oh, it's done," Morgan scanned the depths of his eyes with hers in a search for the truth that made Gerry's heart twist painfully within his leaping chest. "It's done," she announced, releasing her visual grip. "It's a near-epic, really deep and emotional, powerful, so you'd better play it for me now." She lowered into the futon and gazed expectantly at him. "You can't hide it from me. Your eyes and this room reek of whatever you've created. Wonderboy, this is what I've been waiting for." 

His heart sunk, a sickly feeling in his mouth. "What you've been waiting for?" he rasped, barely able to get the words out amidst all the pain. "Is that all I do, write songs for you?"

Morgan snorted. "What'd make you jump to a stupid conclusion like that?" At his flinch, Morgan slowly raised herself from her seat, examining the melting pot of emotions Gerry couldn't keep from his face. Her features grew shockingly soft—and apologetic. "I'm sorry," she whispered, everything about her genuine. "I guess with the way I've been treating you it'd be easy to think that." 

She took a stunned Gerry's forearm, one that tingled in a furious frenzy at the touch, and drew him to sit beside her. "You've got more musical potential in a finger than anyone else with talent that I've known," she admitted. "For the good of the rock community I had to find a way to help you really tap into it…and selfishly, I guess, I wanted to be a part of it."

_'YOU are it!' _Gerry's mind screamed, unable and unwilling to rip his eyes from hers.

Morgan sighed, rubbed her face with a hand, and continued. "All the stuff you've been doing, it's GREAT, it is, but you still hadn't written that one song, the one that would show just how much genius you've got. Now you have, I know you have, and I have to hear it."

She finished and stared at him, entirely open. In her eyes and face Gerry saw the apology, friendship, support, and admiration of his skill that she'd gradually let leak since they'd gotten to know each other better. He paused, uncertain. He wanted to play it for her, almost more than anything. But he wasn't sure if he could. Gerry knew that if he played, she'd know how he felt, and he didn't know how she'd respond.

Mistaking his pause for something else, Morgan sighed again. "Of course, how are you supposed to believe me, I've done such a good job at appearing indifferent." She stopped and struggled with her words, something like pain but with other unknowns added flashing across her face. "I'm just not good with people…you're one of the only I can open up to at all…and I didn't mean to, didn't really even know I was hurting you."

After a hesitation, Gerry squeezed her forearm. "You weren't. Not like you think, anyway. You were just being you, and I'm grateful for that." He rose and found his tape player, setting it to the spot with a recording he'd made that morning of the bass line. He drew his guitar into his lap, "I'm not the only one with talent, you'll sense the drum parts," and played.

_But__ when we wake_

_It's all been erased_

Younger, 12-year-old brothers may not seem like the type to go to for advice, especially romantic-relationship advice, but Gerry found himself in Caleb's room anyway. For his age, Caleb possessed an extraordinary amount of knowledge on anything, even on things he had little or no experience with. Gerry guessed his younger sibling's quiet observation of the world led to his uncanny ability to read and understand situations and people.

"So what did she do after you played her the song?" Caleb gazed at Gerry solemnly, the book he'd put down after Gerry entered resting just as seriously in his lap, enhancing the effect that made Caleb appear the elder.

Furrowing his brow, Gerry sank onto the bed beside Caleb. He chewed at the inside of his lip, pensive despite his confusion. Her multilayered reaction had only complicated what had already existed as a complex situation. "At first she just stared, not saying anything," he revealed after working it out for himself. "Awestruck, kinda, at least that's the look that was on her face. She said some stuff about brilliant, moving, and entrancing…" there Gerry trailed off, swallowing. What had come next bothered him the most, for he could see it only as a bad sign.

"Then…?" Caleb pushed, keeping the query short and soft, as his manner dictated. 

"Then she just stopped," Gerry continued, lowering his face into his hands. "It was like a light bulb switched on. She got really white, and shaky. She mumbled a bunch of stuff, I couldn't really understand what she said, and left really fast." Gerry's voice came defeated, cracked, and grated. "She figured it out. Who the song was about, and she ran."

Caleb considered this for a few moments. His face held an entirely contemplative tone, as if he weighed each option thoroughly before making a decision.

_'Knowing Cale,' _Gerry thought, _'he's looking at the entire situation from every angle before deciding what's going on.'_

"I wouldn't worry too much," Cale announced, breaking through his musings. "I think the running is a good thing."

"What?" Gerry rose to pace around the room, waving his arms in the air for enunciation. "How is that a good thing? She knows how I feel and she left me."

"From what you've told me before," Cale reached and gently pulled Gerry back into a sitting position, "Morgan isn't the type to show her emotions. Most likely, if she felt anything at all back, she'd run, not knowing how to deal with everything. A Morgan who felt nothing would stay and work things out, to keep you writing good songs without the whole situation ruining her dreams of a band." Caleb finished, picking up his book and raising it again to his nose. From behind its cover, he gave Gerry a last piece of advice. "She's going to stay hidden until she's built her wall back up, so you might want to get to her before you're shut out again."

_And so__ it seems_

_Only in dreams_

Running up to the Kirbys' door, Gerry rapped on the shining green wood, fighting the urgency on his face. He didn't want to explain to Morgan's parents why he rushed. The door opened to reveal Morgan's mother's kind but scatterbrained face. "Gerry, dear, hello." She leaned against the doorframe. "I'm afraid Morgan's out."

  "Out?" Gerry echoed, trying not to stagger. Morgan never went "out." She went over friends' houses; he wouldn't even consider the possibility of her laughing at him, or—anything—with anyone.

"Yes," Mrs. Kirby answered, as if Gerry had asked a question. Her nose wrinkled, a slight thoughtful motion. "She went out for a walk." 

A funny tickling sensation itched at Gerry's legs. They began to run on their own, his body realizing something before it registered in his mind. He barely had enough time to shout a thank-you over his shoulder before he dashed around the corner.

Gerry's legs took him towards the park, and a spot that trigged memories, some more recent than others.

***

"Why are we practicing here? Your garage is perfect." Morgan grimaced at the small clearing dotted on the sides with four trees, and furnished by three rocks at the center. "It's pretty enough," she turned and glanced distrustfully at the people walking innocently by on the near path, "but too in view of the rest of civilization." 

"That helps sometimes, you know," Gerry tossed his drumsticks onto the grass beside one of the rocks, then lowered onto that rock. "With the writing process. Observing and studying the human animal reacquainting itself with nature can really inspire some good stuff. Besides," he patted the rock next to him, holding back an amused snort as Morgan grudgingly did as he indicated. "My house during a Sunday afternoon isn't the greatest place for anything musical. You could pad the walls of the garage and still not be able to hear yourself play."

"Ouch, that must be rough," Morgan winced.

"Nah," Gerry shrugged and shook his head. "My parents and Coach and Will have a lot of fun together." He spread his arms out wide, turning his face up to the sun. "That's how I got to find this place, too, I was looking for some solace."

"Alright, fine, we'll practice here," Morgan sighed and gave. She leaned and grabbed the discarded sticks, tossing them in Gerry's direction. "But if we get yelled at my whiny old men or arrested for disturbing the peace, you're in trouble."

***

He slowed as he saw the figure, blurry in the fuzzy twilight. Walking now, Gerry made his cautious way to the square of trees and rock, their outdoor inspirational heaven should the garage be unusable. 

She turned at the crunch of his foot in a dying leaf. "You found me," her lips curled in a half-hearted smile, one difficult to interpret without sufficient light. He could see enough to tell, however, that she didn't hide anything from her face. At least he arrived before the wall went back up.

"Though if id' really wanted to hide," she announced, the look in her eyes saying she didn't like him staring, searching for answers, without asking any questions. "I wouldn't have come someplace so obvious."

"Morgan," Gerry wet dry lips with a flip of his tongue, trying to gain an extra second to search for words that wouldn't make him sound too stupid. " About last night…you figured out the song, didn't you?" 

He kicked himself as soon as the question that should have been a statement left his mouth.

A single eyebrow shot up. "I know you don't think I'm stupid, Wonderboy." She inspected him, still with that lone eyebrow, then waved a hand, letting him off. "I forgot. Irrelevant questions are what you do when you don't know how to say something or what to do. I run. But you figured that out, too."

"You wanted to be found, though," Gerry pointed out, Morgan's frankness encouraging his own. 

"I did," Morgan nodded in approval, then glanced, as a reminder, at the remaining shafts of sunlight. "Now are you going to spit what you're trying to say out, or do I have to miss dinner?"

Gerry stared, less surprised at her bluntness than at her dragging everything out (Morgan usually wanted things to the point as soon as possible). He stared at the hands, resting in the same black and white hoody pocket, brown ponytail pinned to the back of her head with the tips blowing gently in the chilling breeze, cynical brown eyes today behind a rare set of wiry black frames.

She looked exactly the same as when he'd last seen her—plain, nothing special—if he looked at her like anyone else. Through his changed eyes, she was now the most perfect girl he'd seen, better than any prom or beauty queen.

"I know you know what I feel, you heard the song…it's straightforward enough," despite Morgan's previous urgings, he still eased the words out lest he botch them. "But even without you hiding, I still can't tell how you feel."

"Really?" Morgan's tone came mock-surprised. "You must not be looking hard enough." With each word she took a step closer, until she slid a drumstick calloused hand into his. "Maybe you should try again."

Beating back the a desire to lift her and twirl her around—she'd hate that—Gerry settled on a telling smile. He let his eyes swim in hers as he leaned down, nearing her face.

She pulled back just enough to tease at the last second, the enigmatic-yet-mischievous grin he suddenly hated along with loved dancing about her features. "Wonderboy, in your dreams."

end. 


End file.
